Intractability
by PennyDread
Summary: AU! Regency Hogwarts! Lord Granger has always kept his daughter hidden away, excusing her absence from society by way of her frail health. When he dies suddenly, Hermione must learn to control the birthright he has always denied her, and navigate her way through a world obsessed with purity and alliance.


**Summary: **AU! Regency Hogwarts! Lord Granger has always kept his daughter hidden away, excusing her absence from society by way of her frail health. When he dies suddenly, Hermione must learn to control the birthright he has denied her, and navigate her way through a world obsessed with purity and alliance.

**PROLOGUE**

The newspapers had been brought up with her morning cup of chocolate, but by noon they still lay unopened on the tray. By that time Hermione had dressed, breakfasted on dry toast, and begun to work her way through a teetering pile of papers on her desk.

The work was hard going, and not just because of the dry legal text she was forced to wade through. Despite the best efforts of a line of governesses, her posture still left something to be desired. Before long, a knot formed between her shoulders and a headache began to bloom behind her eyes.

As the long afternoon began to grow dim, Hermione finally sat back in her chair. She stretched, easing muscles that had tensed while she hunched over her work, and rose to ring for dinner. She barely had time to return to her seat before a knock came at the door, and she bade the visitor enter.

Hermione was surprised to see Susan - shy of everyone but Cook and rarely far from the kitchen - creep into the room. Then again, she supposed, disaster had struck at a very inconvenient time. Only a few servants remained in London to see to her; most had followed her father to the country for the summer.

The thought caused a sharp pang in her stomach. For a breathless moment she thought she would cry, but then she caught herself.

Hermione realised that Susan was looking at her askance. The girl must be wondering why she had been summoned only for her mistress to stand and stare at her in silence.

'Forgive me, Susan, I'm not quite myself today,' she said. 'Could you ask Cook to prepare a tray for me, please? Something cold will do nicely.'

'Will you be dining in your bedroom, miss?'

'Yes. Thank you, Susan.'

The girl left with a look of no small relief.

With no further excuses left to her, Hermione turned to the task she had been putting off all day.

She spread that morning's papers across her desk. Skimming through them, she caught no sight of Lord Granger's face in the cartoons. It had appeared often recently, his face drawn gaunt and dominated by two buck teeth.

Hermione had, on occasion, appeared alongside him - always in the background, her portrayal scarcely more flattering than her father's. At least her teeth were well proportioned; one of the few benefits of her peculiar upbringing was that she was never in view of a gossip.

Although his image was notable by its absence, all of the newspapers carried Lord Granger's name that day. It appeared bordered in black, above the time and place of his funeral.

Another benefit of Hermione's circumstances was that she would not be expected, or in all likelihood even asked, to attend. The relief she felt was mixed, though, with indignation at the knowledge that this is what her father would have wished.

He would have said it was her contrary nature. She would have told him it felt like his final word to her. It had long since ceased to comfort her to think that he was simply incapable of grasping how she felt.

Her line of thought was interrupted by Susan's return, bringing a tray laden with cold cuts of meat, cheese and bread. She all but dropped it into Hermione's lap before fleeing back to the safety of the kitchen.

Hermione only nibbled the food at first, but her stomach soon woke and demanded more. She cleaned the plate, and found herself reaching to ring for another. It was only the thought of Susan's frightened face that stopped her.

'You're just being greedy,' she admonished herself, stifling a yawn.

Both her appetite and sleep had suffered since word of her father's death had arrived. If one had returned, Hermione reasoned, perhaps so had the other.

With difficulty, she climbed out of her dress and into her nightshirt. On the bed, she found she had neither the strength nor the inclination to wrestle with the tightly tucked covers. Instead, she reached for her dressing gown and rolled herself inside it.

For a moment, the dreadful thought that had kept her awake these last few nights threatened to surface: what would she do now?

Ostensibly, with Lord Granger gone, she was free. Hermione could not, however, convince herself that it was that simple. Had her father overcome his innate paranoia enough to entrust somebody with their secret, and leave instructions for her care after his death?

That was not the worst scenario. Her father could be right, and Hermione's isolation necessary.

She grunted, annoyed with herself for threatening the fleeting feeling of sleepy contentment. Turning her head into the pillow, she determinedly cleared her mind. Within moments she had fallen into a deep, dreamless sleep.

Later, she woke disoriented. The candles had been snuffed and the thick curtains drawn against the world; in the absolute darkness, she had no sense of how much time had passed. She was only aware of the persistent scratching sound that had woken her.

She had to clamp a hand over her mouth to stifle a cry. In the dim moonlight, the thing at her window looked like something out of a nightmare. Indeed, she thought was dreaming until a sharp pinch convinced her otherwise. It also drove out the last of her sleepiness, and helped her to think clearer. As she returned to her senses, she began to recognise the creature; the truth was strange, if thankfully less frightening.

It was an owl.

As Hermione watched, the owl raised a claw to scratch the window. It did so while staring at her with eyes which were peculiarly intelligent. As reluctant as she might be to admit it, she was certain the bird was requesting that she let it inside.

When she opened the latch and began to ease the window open, the owl barged its way through and immediately helped itself to Hermione's water jug. She was left to stumble back to her bedside table in the semi darkness so that she could light a candle.

It was only once she had managed this that she noticed the letter attached to the owl's leg. Hermione forced herself to blink, and when that failed to help, resorted to pinching herself again. She had to be dreaming, or else as ill as her father had promised, for she was certain the letter was addressed to her.


End file.
